Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (69 page)

A knock at the door brought his head up sharply, eyes narrowed in anger. “Bastards,” he said wearily.

“Who is it?”

“Army—who else? File on me must be gettin’ to the size of a small novella, they’ll be splittin’ it into installments soon. Considerin’ the number of bodies you take pictures of every week, ye’d think they’d have somethin’ more constructive to do.”

The knocking was more demanding now, a command to open the door. Pat addressed a silent, but eloquent, finger to the escalating noise.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

He shook his head. “What for? There’s nothin’ new to go over. They’ve my address, license, car make, an’ likely what I eat for breakfast. If I sneeze under my pillow at night, they ask how my cold is in the mornin’. What more can they want to know? It’s a bloody waste of time, which I think is maybe the point. They didn’t hurt ye, did they?”

“No,” she replied hastily, seeing the look that had become common to his face since he’d been interned. It was the look of a man who needed very little provocation to lash out.

“They asked a lot of questions, but they were polite about it.”

“Oh yes, the bloody English, polite even while they’re hangin’ ye.”

“I managed a visit with Casey last Sunday,” she said, thinking it wise to change the subject. “It was only twenty minutes mind you, but we managed to talk a bit. He says he’s fine,” she shrugged, the visit had been hard on both of them and Casey had discouraged her about attempting another.

“Did ye tell him what yer doin’ for a livin’?” Pat asked, dark brows drawn down.

“Yes, well no—maybe I made it sound a little more innocuous than it strictly is, but I don’t think he needs the worry of it right now. He frets too much. I’m a grown woman but he still thinks I’m a child when it comes to Belfast.”

“Well aren’t ye a wee bit of a child to be naïve enough not to see what risks yer takin’?”

“Are you angry at me, Patrick?”

He breathed out heavily through his nose, face like a thundercloud. “Aye I suppose I am a wee bit, though it’s not yer fault. I—this news about my daddy has addled me.”

“It’s alright, I feel a little addled myself.”

Pat gave her a considering look. “That doesn’t mean I don’t think yer bein’ a pigheaded fool with that job of yers, an’ I know Casey’d be fit to be tied if he knew. Ye’ve not considered it from his angle maybe, an’ I don’t think ye can understand the risks he took merely to be with ye, can ye? To marry someone from away, someone who’d no past that was common knowledge. Men have been killed for less in this city.”

She shook her head. “No, at the time I didn’t understand. I was so mad in love I couldn’t fathom any impediments. I wanted him, that was all I knew. I didn’t think beyond that for either of us. Now, though, I’ve a better appreciation of what it must have meant to marry someone who was a complete alien to this environment. Do you think he did the wrong thing?”

He gave her a queer look and then shook his head. “How can ye even ask that, Pamela? Once he’d seen ye, there was no turnin’ back for him. I know it’s somethin’ yer used to but perhaps ye’ll also know that the way he loves ye is no common thing. People wait their whole lives to feel somethin’ that would fill up a corner; when my brother looks at ye it’s somethin’ so large there’s no space adequate to it. He knows he’s blessed, an’ I know it too. How could I feel that was the wrong thing? No one who cared for the man could be so foolish.”

“But you feel this thing I want to do is foolish, don’t you?”

“Aye,” he nodded, “I do. It’s not only yerself ye’ll put in harm’s way, it’s him an’ Jamie as well.”

“Casey’s safely behind bars and Jamie’s more than capable of looking after himself.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘safe’ behind bars, Pamela, an’ ye know it. As for Jamie, I’ll agree that I’ve not met many a man more capable than him, but when it comes to lookin’ after himself—where yer concerned I’d say he’s not very capable at all.”

She looked away, Pat’s eyes had always seen too much. “There isn’t anything between Jamie and I anymore.”

“I know neither of ye have ever acted on yer feelins’, leastwise not since ye married my brother, but I see the way the man changes when yer about. He’s careful to cover it, but it’s there in the air, make no mistake.”

“I would think it would make you angry with the both of us,” she said softly.

“No, were ye different people I’d not understand, but somehow the love ye bear him doesn’t seem to affect what ye give my brother. If I felt it was takin’ somethin’ vital from him I’d be the first to complain, but somehow ye manage. I’ll not say I’d like to be in Casey’s shoes at times, though,” he smiled, taking the sting from his words.

At this juncture the letter was looking like a less fraught topic. “What do you want me to do about this?” she asked.

The letter lay between them like an incendiary device, as though any minute it would ignite and blow the both of them—and all they’d grown familiar with—to kingdom come. Pat stared at the heavy cream stationary mutely, his face a mask that she could not decipher.

“He was your father too, Pat,” she said quietly, feeling faintly giddy from the ink fumes that surrounded them. “Don’t you want to know?”

Pat shook his head. “There’s want an’ then there’s necessity. Maybe I’d want to know, but do I need to?” he paused, and she noted his hands, blue-streaked, were tremoring slightly. “I’ve lived this long with my Da’s death, never certain of the truth, but able to bear it. Do I want to change that? Knowin’ that the circumstances of his death were different than what I imagined won’t bring him back, an’ yet,” his eyes fixed on hers, “an’ yet how can I sleep proper if I turn my face from this? Damn it, Pamela,” he slapped the top of the box he’d just sealed, “why couldn’t ye leave well enough alone?”

She started slightly; it was so unlike Pat to lose his temper. The fact that he had only proved how badly this news disturbed him.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t imagine just leaving it once I’d seen those papers.”

“Aye, yer right, an’ I suppose I ought not to shoot the messenger.” He sat down across from her again, face grim. “What do we do then?”

“We?” she echoed.

“Do ye suppose I’m goin’ to let ye go about alone pokin’ into this? An’ I know ye will, so don’t bother sayin’ anything to the contrary.”

There were times, she thought, biting her tongue, that the man was annoyingly like his brother. She also knew that Riordan obstinacy was not something she could prevail against. Besides, two heads were infinitely better than one in this case.

“It’ll have to stay between us,” she said, feeling a small flutter of conscience and quickly smothering it. Casey was, as she’d stated, tucked away in prison and couldn’t be consulted.

Pat nodded. “Aye, we’ll keep it to the two of us, but that means yer not to go runnin’ off on some wild goose chase on yer own. If ye find somethin’ out ye have to come tell me first an’ then we’ll decide on the best course. Cool heads prevailin’ an’ all that, alright?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise I’ll tell you right off if I find anything out, and we’ll decide together what to do about it.”

He cocked a dark brow at her. “Were ye ever a Girl Scout?”

“Not officially,” she admitted.

“Aye,” his tone was resigned, “I thought not.”

AWAY FROM THE CITY LIGHTS, fall closed in quickly. A large moon sat upon the tops of the hills, only to find itself snared in the grasp of the ancient ash tree that looked like a ghost of its summer self. At dusk large flocks of crows skimmed in silence over the treetops. Mornings brought browning fields rimed with frost. The scent of smoke and peat drifted, phantom-like, down the roads.

Just that dawn, she’d awakened early and was treated to the sight of a neat vee of geese crossing the face of the moon. It was an hour she found herself keeping company with more often than not these days. She never had slept well when Casey wasn’t in the bed, but rather drifted on the surface of sleep, with the occasional sinking under to a deeper state from which, of late, she would jerk awake with a pounding heart and sweaty palms. Then for the hours before dawn, she would exist in an uneasy state where she felt for a certainty that someone was watching her. Or at least watching the house.

The feeling had started about a week after she’d returned from Jamie’s house. She’d tried to shake it off, read it away and curse herself for a superstitious fool, but the feeling persisted until she found herself wandering her home in the dark, like a ghost who could not rest.

Worry gnawed at her bones almost continually; worry for Casey, worry for the dark restlessness that had possessed Pat since his release, worry for Lawrence, and worry for the tiny life she sheltered within her body. Two days ago she had started spotting, and the blood was a bright red, not the normal and unalarming brown that sometimes accompanied pregnancy. Her doctor had reassured her that the baby was fine at present. But she had seen the unspoken words that hovered at the back of his eyes and knew that this baby wasn’t on the most secure of ground.

Tonight, in an effort to banish the ghosts of anxiety she had invited Pat and Sylvie, as well as Jamie, to come share Hallowe’en with her.

It was a mild day, with a mellow sun lighting the great drifts of oak and ash leaves that lay about the yard. As early night swallowed the sun, the yard came to flickering light through the eyes of grinning jack o’lanterns that she and Lawrence had carved and placed on the front stairs, and in the crooked elbows of a gnarled oak. With the encroaching darkness, a crisp wind sprang up and set the leaves to whispering and scuttling in small eddies about the ground.

A great bonfire, heaped with fragrant apple wood, cast long tongues of violet and gold into the dusky night. Bathed in the heat, Pamela felt warm for the first time in weeks. The feeling of odd menace that had been her constant companion of late fled in the wake of Jamie’s arrival. For the moment, the home she’d grown to love felt again like a safe warm harbor.

Going inside to prepare dessert, she took a deep breath of cider spices, pumpkin pie, and dried rosemary. The pine floors glowed in the soft, flickering candlelight, a basket of apples giving off stray gleams of ruddy ripeness. On the Aga, a large pot bubbled merrily as a witch’s cauldron, the heady steam of hot cider warming her nose.

Pat, under the pretext of helping, followed her into the kitchen.

“Have ye received any more of the wee notes?” he asked, voice near to a whisper.

She cast a glance over her shoulder. Both Jamie and Sylvie were busily re-stuffing the scarecrow that Finbar had dragged around the back of the shed and de-stuffed. Lawrence was nowhere to be seen, but she thought she detected the faint glow of a cigarette lighter at the edge of the dark woods.

“Just one more, two days ago. He wants a meeting, but didn’t say exactly when.”

Pat’s eyebrows rose in consternation. “A meeting? Yer not to even think about goin’ alone, understand?”

“Understood,” she said in as meek a tone as she could manage, which only made Pat give her a very black look.

“I mean it, Pamela; yer in no condition to be traipsin’ about the countryside on yer own, meetin’ God knows who, God knows where.”

“I know that,” she hissed, hearing the sound of a step on the porch.

“I mean it,” he said ominously, glaring daggers at her just as Jamie came in the kitchen, trailing the scents of wood smoke and roasted potatoes.

“What are the two of you brewing up, anarchy with a pinch of mayhem?” Jamie asked lightly, a smile on his face that melted into a look of suspicion as he noted their still intensity.

They both laughed a little too heartily, and it was Jamie who had the raised eyebrow now.

Pat, never good at deception of any sort, fled back outside, causing Jamie’s eyebrow to rise even higher.

Pamela quickly busied herself with re-filling the heavy ceramic mugs with cider and laying out the plates for pie.

“How was your visit?” Jamie asked, rolling up his sleeves to wash forks for dessert.

“Not great,” she replied, rooting through the fridge for cream. “I had all of twenty minutes with him.”

“How is he?” Jamie had turned from the sink, tea towel in hand. He gave the forks a brisk polish as he waited for her answer.

She shrugged, determined not to give into the tears that prickled at the back of her throat. The visit with Casey had not gone at all as she had hoped.

“As well as might be expected. There was a guard in attendance the whole time. Made it a little awkward to talk. He told me he doesn’t want me visiting anymore.”

“Oh. Did he tell you why?”

“He said the visits compromise both him and myself and that he doesn’t want me going through that. I think it’s my decision. He doesn’t agree.”

“He knows they’ll use you as leverage against him, he’s trying to protect you and himself by doing this.”

“Are you saying he’s right?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do agree with him on this point.”

She sighed. “Why does everyone seem to have an opinion on this?”

“I take it Pat thinks you should stay away as well.”

“He does,” she admitted reluctantly.

“He understands the situation.”

“And I don’t?” she said in outrage, “It was my bed Casey was torn from, the man is
my
husband.”

“A fact,” Jamie said, tone dry, “of which I don’t need reminding.”

“Well I don’t understand. The other men have visitors. You know how hard it was to get that pass to see him.”

“Yes, I know, and I understand your frustration, but you might try to see it from his side.”

“Which would be what, exactly?” she asked, tea towel now fisted tightly at her hip.

“He’s not some green internee, Pamela, he’s been imprisoned before.”

“I do know that,” she said stiffly.

“Well perhaps then you need to think what it does to a man to realize his wife has been strip searched, considering what has happened to you in the past. Add to that the fact that they’ll taunt him with it later, possibly talk about your body to him. Men who’ve beat him, interrogated him, and can hold him indefinitely without charges.”